Dual Identity
by JZ Belexes
Summary: Autobot double agent Punch deals with the threats around him... and within him. Figured I might as well start here with my very first fanfic, written way back in... 04, I think it was.
1. Chapter 1

**Dual Identity**

**PART I**

It's funny, I've done this so many times, I've lost count—and yet every time still seems like my first.

I've traveled to Maccadam's Old Oil House, which is just about the only neutral place on Cybertron left, but of course I'm still careful to cover my tracks. And in my line of work, "careful" means _careful_. Once I reach my destination, I transform into my Autobot robot form. Right now, I am Punch, the secret alter ego of Counterpunch. Or rather, _Counterpunch_ is _my_ alter ego. There are some cycles when I have a hard time keeping it straight—and that scares me.

As Punch, I emerge from the shadows and slink into Maccadam's to meet with my contact. My optic sensors dart from left to right as I scan the poorly-lit room for him, but he's not here yet. As usual, I've gotten here first. So I sit down and order a non-intoxicating energon compound nicknamed the "Kremzeek"—best to keep a clear head at all times. Even something as relatively simple as inebriation could cause me to slip up somehow, costing me my cover and then my life. No, not just _my_ life: if Megatron ever gets hold of the secrets in my head, it could compromise the Autobot force's already precarious position in this war. Too many innocent lives depend on me for my liking, but I suck it up and do my job like a good soldier.

The familiar roar of my contact's engine provides a welcome distraction from my distressed thoughts and I take a sip from my drink to soothe my frayed neuro-circuits. Just for fun, I count down the seconds between the dying of his engine and his entrance into the bar—and sure enough, he steps in as soon as I hit "zero." Have I mentioned that I've done this so many times I've lost count?

"'Sup, Punch?" Jazz asks too loudly for my tastes as he plops down with some cocktail. He must have noticed me wince because the next thing he says is "_Slaaag _dude, you look tenser than usual. Calm down a little 'fore you pop a gasket." As usual, I can barely understand him. Ever since Jazz got back from Earth he's been incorporating Earthen slang and idioms into his speech and it's slagging irritating, you dig?

"Keep it down," I whisper. "Are you _trying_ to blow my cover?"

"Hey, c'mon. Th' only Cons here are Dreadwind an' Darkwing in th' corner over there. An' they're gonna be so hung over t'morrow they ain't even gonna remember you an' me." To my horror, Jazz tosses an empty bottle at Darkwing to demonstrate. It flies square into his head, shattering upon impact—and he slumps down onto the table, his head landing right on top of Dreadwind's. Both are unconscious, which is nothing new at Maccadam's. I face Jazz again and frown when I see that fragging cocky grin of his. "See? Nothin' t' worry 'bout, cat."

I reluctantly grunt in concession only because I don't want him to pull off something even more stupid as I hand him a datapad containing my report. "Here it is," I say. "As many Decepticon field placements as I could get my clutches on without looking suspicious. And this time I'm also including a formal request to Command to let more Autobots know about my dual identity. A few cycles ago I almost got terminated by Snarl."

"Eh, just 'bout every Autobot's gotten trashed by th' Dinobots at some point in their lives," Jazz says jokingly, though I'm willing to bet he's not too far from the truth. "But I'll letcha know what Optimus Prime says."

I gulp down the last of my drink, as it's time for me to go. "Thanks," I gasp out before standing up to leave. "Now I'd better get back before anyone at the fortress starts to suspect anything."

"Drinks're on me," Jazz promises with one last friendly grin, and I nod in thanks. But as I step out of the bar I overhear him sigh and say to himself, "Poor kid. Pressure must be gettin' t' him."

It's not _that_ obvious, is it?


	2. Chapter 2

**PART II**

I rendezvoused with Jazz during one of Counterpunch's scheduled field patrols, so fortunately I wasn't missed. Upon my approaching the fortress I transform into my other robot form, reassuming the guise of Counterpunch, ruthless Decepticon grunt. Though not many Transformers are "gifted" with the ability to properly utilize two robot modes, it's a talent I could live without. Like Jazz said to me once, "With great power comes great responsibilities." I'm sure he picked up that little proverb from Earth, but it's certainly true in my case.

As I walk down the darkly lit corridor to my quarters I pass a mirror designed to both reflect light through the passage and allow one to see if anyone was across the bend in the hall (Apparently Decepticons are paranoid that way, but who am I to judge?) I pause to take a good look at myself. The reformatting process, when I was rebuilt with the second robot mode, in itself was not unpleasant, and I got acclimated to it fast enough. My two robot modes were designed to look as different as possible—yet because they share a common vehicle mode it was unavoidable that they should share some common structural features, a few more than I care for. Of course, if I had it _my_ way, Punch and Counterpunch would have two separate bodies, but apparently only "city-formers" and Pretenders are privy to that little gimmick. At the very least, they could have outfitted me with tech to change my colors.

Finally I arrive at my quarters and find the door busted open, with Runabout and Runamuck rummaging through my few belongings. "What the _frag_ are you fools up to!?" I demand as I level my gun at Runamuck, showing as much outrage as I can muster, though inside I am terrified. Have I finally been found out?

"Ask _him_," he replies nonchalantly, thumbing to the shadow behind me.

I spin around as the door slams behind me but it is too late. Shockwave emerges from the corner, the cannon mounted on his left arm where a hand should be glowing and leveled right at my chest. I know I'm done for. Seeing as how I'm smack dab in the middle of the Decepticons' fortress with no chance of escape, I don't even try to resist as I hear a high-pitched whine, followed by a flash of white, pain, and ultimately, darkness.

To my surprise and dismay, I'm not dead yet. No, Megatron's not going to let me off that easily, I'm sure. First, he's going to extract the intelligence he needs from my laser core utilizing the most sadistic, painful method his brain trust can come up with—_then_ he'll probably give my empty shell to the Stunticons as a plaything to pound out whatever life is left in me.

But another surprise is in store for me. As my vision clears and adjusts to the dark of the room, I note I'm magnetically bound to the wall and a few meters away from me is Stoop, another Decepticon. Judging by the terrified look on his faceplate, Megatron must suspect either him or me of being the Autobots' spy, which means that he doesn't know for sure—so there may still be hope for me. Slim hope, because I know for a fact that Stoop isn't intelligent enough to be a spy, but it's still hope nonetheless and I'll take it.

Stoop says nothing and neither do I. Now is hardly the time for formalities or courtesies anyway, although amongst the Decepticons, I sometimes wonder if they even know what formalities and courtesies are. Even though no words are exchanged, I can see the burning fear consuming his optics and I can't help but feeling a little sorry for him. I keep a firm bottle on my emotions and maintain a neutral expression, however. I've been at this game long too long to give up and I know that if I am to survive I'll have to maintain this charade even to the very end, bitter as it may be. Counterpunch wouldn't be afraid; he would be outraged at being suspected of working for those "pathetic Auto-bums."

The silence that is somehow awkward and humiliating yet terrifying in its monotony is finally ended with a bang as the door before us begins to open. It's just a psychological ploy, I have to remind myself. They're trying to soften us up and I can't let them do that. The light from the outside corridor blinds me momentarily but I instantly recognize the fearsome silhouette before us—it is none other than Megatron himself who has come to flush out the spy. Let the mind games begin.

"Megatron!" I bellow in false anger. "What's going on here?"

"Silence!" his grainy voice resonates through the room. "As if you did not know. Do not insult my intelligence, _traitor_." He says that last word so confidently, as if he knows that for a fact. I know better.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I retort, for what good it will do.

"Please, Megatron," Stoop pleads. "I'm no traitor."

"I said silence!" the warlord growls. He then places both arms behind his torso plates and goes on, "I must commend you. Up until now, you've covered your tracks well. And I must say, your acting is marvelous." Maybe it's just my imagination, but his red optics seem to grow redder and dim somewhat. "But in the end, it is not enough. You should have known better than to test the acumen of the Decepticon army. But, that is what you Autobots do, I suppose. You fight against our race's inevitable evolution, ultimately working towards your own demise."

Megatron goes on, ranting about how the Decepticons are the future, the Autobots are the past, our destiny is to rule the Universe, blah, blah, blah. Even though Stoop is listening intently, I'm only partially paying attention. Right now, my main concern is surviving this ordeal—but I'm paying just enough attention so that I look interested. "You're preaching to the choir," I say when he's finished rambling. "But I'm no Autobot."

"Me neither!" Stoop insists. At the moment, he's my greatest liability. If Megatron realizes that his stupidity is genuine and not an act he'll deduce that it is me who is the mole.

He glares at us for what seems like a cycle. Stoop cringes against the wall and, admittedly, so do I. It's not an act this time either. I am genuinely intimidated here, and I suppose Counterpunch would be too. Finally "The Slagmaker" speaks, and I feel like his voice is grating into my very core processor. "Since neither of you is wise enough to admit your treachery, then you have but one opportunity to prove your loyalty: A trial by combat!"

A trial by combat!? What in Primus' name is _that_ supposed to prove? How, in the name of the Matrix, does pitting Stoop and I against each other in battle prove that we're not spies? Wait, I'm dealing with Decepticons here—and if there's one thing they live for, it's the excitement and chaos of warfare. They will stage to-the-death fights for the silliest or most mundane reasons just to avoid boredom. Even though Megatron's wiser and less rambunctious than the average Con grunt, he _is_ still a Decepticon himself and must still share some of their lust to see oil spilt, I guess.

I look Stoop over and know this isn't going to be an easy fight. As I've said before, Stoop isn't exactly the brightest Decepticon. Usually Con generals don't tolerate stupidity as overt as I've seen his to be—unless he can compensate with remarkable fighting skills. But really, what choice do I have?

"I'm in," I growl. In my infiltration of the Decepticons, I decided early on that Counterpunch was only a slightly above average warrior so that I could refrain from drawing the attention of my superiors and maintain a low profile. But today I will have to fight as ruthlessly as the fiercest Decepticon to stay alive—and I feel like I just lost another fragment of my identity as an Autobot.

"M-me too," Stoop stutters, then turns to glare at me. I glare back. Oh, this is definitely going to be an ordeal.


	3. Chapter 3

**PART III**

As unruly as Decepticons are, they're pretty quick to assemble when the magic word—"battle"—is spoken. Already, the seats above the arena in which Stoop and I now stand are brimming with taunting, jeering and bellowing Decepticons, most of them either placing bets or booing at us. I can see it getting to Stoop, who is bound in energy bonds like me, as his head darts left and right as he strains to make out a friendly face within the assembly. I merely stare straight ahead at him, assessing my foe for the twentieth time. He's afraid and panicky, which makes him more dangerous but if I do this right, I can use his fear to my benefit. However, it's all I can do to keep from loosing it myself.

Decepticons rarely bother with cleaning up after themselves and this arena is no exception. It is littered with wreckage and battered, rusted-out corpses and reeks of various lubricants and oxidized elements. I have to fight, not only Stoop, but my own nausea as I shift my weight and accidentally step on some poor dead Autobot's hand from a previous execution and it crumbles to dust underneath my foot. Though I don't know who it was, I silently mourn his death for a moment as I would any other of my Autobot brothers-in-arms; the grim look now forever indented into his faceplate tells me he met his death with a sense of dignity. I can only hope that when my time does come I can face it with the courage he did.

The crowd finally simmers down when Megatron rises to speak, out of fear just as much as out of respect. After he booms out a few words—"So shall it be to all traitors," etc.—he make a motion to his little red lackey Rumble, who laughs and obediently throws a switch half as big as he is. The small generators defying gravity at our sides power down, and the bonds around us fade out of existence. Before the generators hit the ground I whip my weapon out and fire at Stoop. Or rather, I fire at where Stoop _was_. His speed is impressive and once again I'm reminded that I'm going to have to keep at my most ruthless if I am to survive.

He's transformed and taken to the air, leaving me at a disadvantage. All Decepticons have the ability to fly in robot mode at least so of course I was outfitted with that same tech. However, anti-grav generators are slow and cumbersome compared to the jet thrusters keeping Stoop aloft. My chances are definitely better on the ground so that's where I'll stay.

Stoop is now trying to make a strafing run despite the lack of room in the coliseum. But he can only travel a short distance before he has to pull up and turn around, lest he crash into a wall—which gives me a window of opportunity to duck behind a wrecked heap that used to be a tank of some sort.

Alright, now before I start to look like a coward I'd better fight back. Once Stoop has finished his third strafing run and starts to pull up, I jump out onto the tank and fire my photon cannon directly at his wing. Miraculously, a shot connects with its target; he screams in pain as static electricity erupts from it and he crashes to the ground.

I jump down from the tank and cry out in triumph, but the fight's not over yet. By the time Stoop's stopped skidding through the ground he's already transformed back into his robot mode. To my amazement, he rends the still-sparking wing from his arm before drawing his mortar cannon and firing an explosive shell at my chest. You have to commend someone with enough mental discipline to do that, even if he is not-too-bright. I jump out of the way just in time and the shell hits the tank instead, causing it to erupt in a cloud of smoke and flame, one that sends us both flying through the air. Just about the only thing louder than the explosion is the cheering from the crowd.

I momentarily consider giving up and just letting them finish me off. Sure, my data core is booby-trapped with an explosive should I be found out and any Decepticon try to tamper with it, but I'd rather not see that happen. As tenuous and trying as my life can be, I don't want to loose it. So I've got to keep moving. My whole body aches as I force myself to stand despite the loud whines and creakings that emanate from every single one of my joints.

He and I are on our feet almost instantaneously and the fight begins anew, though he looks as bad as I do. I fire off a few more shots, mostly to distract him, as I run for cover. The debris on this side of the arena is more prolific for some reason, and it gives me an idea. If I can't outfight Stoop, I'll have to outsmart him. Sure enough, my foe decides to pursue me just as I duck under a particularly large pile of rubble. Fortune seems to have smiled on me for once: the barrage of stray firepower over the vorns once caused the roof to collapse a while back and though the Decepticons wasted no time in repairing it, they left parts of the old ceiling all over the ground. Obstacles prolong a fight and make it more interesting anyway, or at least that was their rationalization for allowing the clutter to accumulate here.

From behind my cover I can see Stoop but he hasn't spotted me yet; I don't intend for him to anyway. I pick up a stone and toss at another pile of litter to my left. The noise is enough to bring him running. Okay, so it's the oldest trick in the book, but judging from the looks of things, he never reads. By the time he sees that no one's there and realizes that it was a trap, I've already emerged from my hiding place and leveled my gun at his head. "Move," I growl after I snatch his gun from his hand. Or rather, I caught it before it fell to the ground—by now he's realized that he's doomed and in his terror he's lost his strength and will to fight.

When we finally clear the debris field and step out into the open, the crowd erupts into a frenzy of sounds, a balance of cheers and jeers. Megatron stands up from his overly elaborate throne and claps once… twice… three times. "Very good," he says through the half-smile on his faceplate. "Now, kill him."

Kill him? Suddenly it dawns on me. Autobots hold life, _all_ life, sacred; we do not kill unless there is no other option. Megatron _knows_ this, and he was counting that he could flush me out by my reluctance to execute Stoop, or vice versa. The way he gambled with the life of one of his Decepticon soldiers, just to gain a strategic advantage… it's chilling in its utter disregard for life and lack of loyalty.

But now I'm in a conundrum that I never imagined… and I have a pretty wild imagination. Even with all the scenarios I've run through my head, I never imagined anything like _this_. Time seems to slow as every head in the arena turns to me expectantly. My grip on my weapon handle fluctuates: loosening, tightening, and loosening again. Stoop slowly looks up at me, his optics flooded with a mixture of fear, confusion, and hatred. I know what _must_ be done, to keep myself alive and the secrets of the Autobots safe, but I cannot bring myself to do it. I take a few steps back, away from him, yet at the same time I do not lower my weapon.

Then, darkness consumes me.


	4. Chapter 4

**PART IV**

For the second time today, I'm amazed to find myself _not_ dead. Megatron is standing before me, holding what I instantly recognize to be my Autobot communication device. "Excellent," he purrs, in a pleased tone—pleased? I'm not bound in any way, and no Decepticons are training their weapons at my head. What… happened?

"It is a shame Stoop's core self-destructed before we could retrieve any data," Megatron continues. Is this another mind game, a trick to get me to crack? If so, it's certainly a strange one. Then I catch sight of Rumble and Frenzy dragging Stoop's body—headless, and with a huge, still-smoking gap in his body. "You are to be commended for finding this Autobot device, however. Welcome back to the Decepticons, Counterpunch."

A vague vision of my gun firing and Stoop's head vanishing in a ball of fire smacks me in the faceplate. I look down and find a piece of shrapnel the same color as his helmet imbedded in the cracked windshield on my chest. I quickly yank the shard out, and the glass that had been supporting it falls to the ground. Oh, Primus. Did _I_ actually slay Stoop? Was it I who had planted my communicator on his chest? Or… was it _him?_

I briskly salute Megatron and thank him. He waves me away; he has no further use for me. I slowly turn and leave for my quarters. As I trot down the wide corridors to my room, I encounter no other Decepticons—but in every shadow, every niche and dark place I can sense _him_, watching me.

Of course, I will report these events to Autobot Command. But I won't tell _anyone_ about my… lapse in self-control. If I do, they will certainly pull me out for a psychological evaluation, and I certainly don't want to know what's going on in my spark. I'm afraid to. If it gets worse I know I must eventually say something, but for now I'm sure… I _hope_ I can keep myself under control. I just hope that when the time comes that I do need help, it won't be too late. But I'm a soldier; I gamble with my life every cycle. Gambling with my soul isn't that much different.

I enter my ransacked room and begin putting things back where they belong, but I'm not thorough; I leave some stuff lying around. I… I mean, _Counterpunch_ is not a tidy mech. It's part of the persona I conjured up for him for this ruse. But I wonder, has Counterpunch become _more_ than just a fake persona?

I am answered by a chilling laugh from a shadow in the corner—a voice that sounds like mine, but isn't.


End file.
